


In A Way, She Gave Me The Idea/Them Old Hybristophiliac Blues

by Pink_Siamese



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Siamese/pseuds/Pink_Siamese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The infamous scene between Aaron Hotchner and George Foyet...reinterpreted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In A Way, She Gave Me The Idea

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for episode 5x01, "Nameless, Faceless." Hats off to DragonLadyK, who dared to go there first. Warnings for erotic asphyxiation, gore, and a particularly gruesome form of rape.

He thinks of the girl from Maine—her milky breath, her dark silky hair, the towers falling down inside her bones; he focuses on the task at hand, but each time he makes his attention sharp the grooves in his brain glide him back, sinking down through rotten calendar pages. Oh, but it's so exciting, isn't it? Her arterial knots, her chaos, the smell of adrenaline buried in her skin. He takes her back to New York and watches the fear spread inside of her like a whore's legs and polish the gleam in her eyes. He makes her stand right in the dead center of Ground Zero. Use your words, he says. Tell me a goddamned story. Her breath freezes and shatters in her mouth, cutting open the corners of her eyes. They bleed salt-scented terror and each word squirms like a maggot across her tongue before falling into his hand. How does it feel? My-My h-h-heart, it's like…it's like…my enemy and my blood burns because the chambers are too tight, oh God George, I want to stop now. Her chilled fingers wrap around his sleeve. Please let me. In the middle of the crowd, surrounded by noise, he takes hold of her left breast. Her breath beats panicked wings and her heart kicks at the roof of his palm and her joints get tight loose tight loose. He makes her lick the metal off the inside of her wrist. Her pulse-Braille spells out words on his fingertips like _clench_ and _smother_ and _ruin_ and _split_ and _let me the fuck out of here_. He strokes with his thumb. Her nipple puckers up long and hard.

For fuck's sake, Hotchner. Come on already. All this overtime is going to kill you.

Later that night he—_I_—he takes her back to a modest hotel room and…well. What else does one do with a freaked-out, sweetened-up young thing?

No, not _that_. I honor my contracts, thank you very much.

I—_he_—I'm focusing on the task at hand, but I'm thinking about the girl from Maine. In a way, she gave me the idea. He—because it really lends something, this use of third person, don't you think? It's nice and pretty. Makes it a little bit sweeter. So, anyway…_he_ takes this girl up to a room with the kind of view that would only impress a tourist. He spreads her out on the bed. She's still shaking, but now it's different. This fine tremble is like a cross between humming crystal and wet branches crackling on a hot fire. Inside all of the newly broken whimpering places there's no room for her fear. The mere suggestion of his touch makes her strain to meet it; he puts a hand in her panties and she's already halfway there. Her voice cracks and she sounds young; it scrapes and she sounds much older. Just breathing on her makes her wet. He goes easy on her at first. He lets her dig with her fingers. She can't hold it, though. She goes outside of herself. He slams her back in. The girders in her bones sway but they don't let go and they creak but they don't fall. He—_I_—he kisses her. Her mouth is cold and dry from all the panting. So I lean over on one arm and put my hand around her neck and squeeze.

My---_his_\---my hand is tender on her pulses, taking a touch of her air, slowing the blood…but just a little. Her body clamps down. I loosen my grip so she can take in enough breath to moan. Her little pussy clenches so hard. It's like she's trying to push me out.

It's like…like…

So tell me. Would I use this?

I stab twice, quick, with just enough muscle behind the blade to break through the shocked muscle. Aaron's mouth opens with the first and the shockwave of the second knots up inside his brow. He's tight everywhere: skin, rectus abdominis, transverse abdominis, peritoneum. I'll have you know that there's a lot of anatomy involved in doing this right.

Shhh. Don't speak. You lost a lot of blood. You'll need your oxygen.

Slow this time. Oh, that's it. What a delicious sound. So…wet.

You're not in charge so don't be foolish. Now try to relax. Your body will go numb.

I lean over. I ease the blade in. I look at Aaron's mouth and wonder if it's cold yet.

It goes in much easier…if you relax.

Now I understand that profilers think that stabbing is a substitute for the act of sex. And if somebody's impotent…they'll use a knife instead.

I stab below his navel and twist the knife. His jaw locks in a silent scream.

Is that what you think, Agent Hotchner? I pull the knife out, toss it to one side, and open my jeans. Maybe this will change the way that you profile.

In a way, she gave me the idea. It's a deep gash. The edges are narrow and puckered, rimmed in thin lines of underlying yellow fat. There's a whole lot of blood, but it's hot and it isn't sticky yet. Aaron's scream is no longer so silent. I touch his mouth. His lips are cold. The sensation rips a hot shiver through my loins.

You never listen, do you? You need your fucking oxygen.

…it was like my cock was a knife so in a way she gave me the idea but I'm not thinking because the real thing is…oh, the flesh gets tight tight like a board like a fist and I I can't describe it can't hold it it's squeezing it's pushing me out I'm slamming back in and the scream is sweet dark and rotten I see gloved fingers sticky with blood and jizz the knowledge the horror the vomit the dirty under the skin in the mouth in the eyes in the scars in the…and…and—_AH_!

Hey, Aaron…wake up. Wake up. Oh, there you are. Was it good for you?

I—well, I guess it's _he_—didn't kill that girl. Last he knew she was living in Atlanta.

Maybe he'll take a drive down there. What do you think?


	2. B-Side: Them Old Hybristophiliac Blues

He is just _there_. One moment nothing but smoke shaped out of writhing lights, next minute 206 bones sheathed in their gaunt and yet compelling bag of meat. That gravelly voice, home grown rich with Massachusetts vowels and responsible for the deaths of twenty-something people. Loose white shirt, the kind with tiny buttons. He shoulders through space, everything beneath unfastened and gangly and dozing. Big raw hands and…I hold my breath, waiting for the adrenaline. It's packing up, ready for action, but its dragging its feet.

"What do you…" Fight or flight kicks me right square in the vocal cords. "S-So." I take a ragged breath and watch it sink into his face, the harsh texture sharpening his attention, the tremor in me stirring up a half-smile that makes me want to stretch out and drape something languid over the curled end of it: my slutty duds, my long straight hank of hair, my bloodied and empty skin. My body shifts into sales position: hip cocked, boobs out, the round stuff rounder and the flat stuff flatter, the house light tilted and running over my face, my eyelashes in shadow. The adrenaline crackles through my nerves and ignites in small sputtering flashes. "Are you going to kill me?" I wind strands of hair around my finger. "Is that what you want?"

He plucks a hundred dollar bill out of his shirt pocket and holds it folded between two fingers. "How about a private dance?"

"Mr. Franklin have any friends? I hear he likes to hang with Mr. Grant. Go fly-fishing or bear hunting or whatever."

"Mr. Franklin has a twin. I bet you didn't know that."

"No. I didn't."

"So what do you say?"

I put a hand on his chest, modulate my breath, and slide my arm up around his neck with a smooth one-two step. He smells like soap and raw leaves and scalp distilled by the hot sun and I wonder if he drove and drove and drove through oppressive heat, I wonder if he did it all night long with thoughts of my breath and tight hands and arterial spray keeping him awake. I inhale the moisture rising off his neck and imagine myself split open like a side of beef, like a hank of fresh wood with scarlet sap, like a pair of anonymous thighs buried deep in the pages of _Hustler_. I lean over, hips brushing his, and whisper into his ear. "I want my eyes on you at all times."

"You missed me."

I tease my fingers between his buttons and pout. The heat inside of him whispers to my fingertips. I bring on the little girl voice. "You know what I see when I look at you? I see vulnerable spots." I purse my lips and blow a stream of air into his collar and smile at the way all the little hairs on his forearms snap to attention. "And major arteries, and…things that dislocate real easy. This ear, for instance." I pinch the lobe and tug it. "Between five and ten pounds of foot pressure and it rips off. You know things like that, don't you, George?"

"Are you scared?"

"Yeah." I take his money. "So what if I am? Don't you like it that way?"

"You got mouthy." The crooked grin gets wide. "That's interesting."

"Walk in front of me. The really big bouncer will keep his keen keen eyes on you. Rules are that you can't touch me, but I can touch you."

"We'll see."

"No." I duck through the pink beaded curtain. "Pick a seat. Ooh, the corner one. I might've known. Sit down, honey." I lick my lips. "Relax."

He slumps into the cushion, lazy grin eddying in and out of his face, knees loose.

"Now that's it." I turn around, my gaze linked to his and sliding over one shoulder. I lift a hip and let it fall into a soft circle—slow, deep, melted and stretching into a hard strut. The song is bluesy and slow, grinding guitar, and my stiletto heels hit all of the sultry notes. My hands, a half a beat behind, lift up my hair. "That's it."

"You like doing this?"

"It's easy." My palms slide up my belly, riding the motion of my ribs. I trace with my knuckles the delicate arch of my neck. I undulate, keeping it tight in my middle, letting it open so it takes all of my spine and conquers my hips. I'm marching out all the tricks: swivel, swivel, sticky sweet rising arch, breasts thrusting. I feel his eyes on me, picking at my flesh. I feel them doing the walking. My mouth gets dry and I start to simmer. I slink onto all fours. "I got fired from my other job."

"Is that so?"

I climb up the front of him. "Yeah."

His face drifts into the orbit of my face and I lean forward like I'm going to kiss him. He touches the dormant dimple in my cheek. "I know every place I'm going to stab you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you couldn't figure it out, a hybristophiliac is someone who is sexually aroused by violent criminals.


End file.
